


Mock Blue

by frooit



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: Complete, First Time, Gritty, Harsh Language, M/M, Mind Games, Rough Sex, Sex, Short, Slash, Tyler likes screwing with you, does this count as masturbation?, minor gore, movie geared, shameless porn, some kind of cliffhanger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frooit/pseuds/frooit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't look as ridiculous as would be right in that bathrobe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's just about all you can do to not smack him in the ear again: clench your teeth and look miserable.

"Well, you know, you fucked her."

_No, I didn't_ is what you tell him. Suddenly those stale corn flakes don't taste so great (chewy cardboard and sugar). Because they did before. But when all you really swallow anymore is your own blood and funny tasting saliva when nausea sensations gurgle, these were truly ambrosial.

"You're not into her?"

No! Nooo. Scrunched up face, sick feeling in stomach, oh bliss. Oh, happiness. Thank you Tyler Durden—although, Marla could be blamed just as much—for killing my breakfast. Stab a fork in it, it's done.

He doesn't look as ridiculous as would be right in that bathrobe. You could imagine he'd pull off wearing a trash bag. One tied around his waist with fishing line even. Could strut his tight ass down a runway, cigarette puffing deadly smoke into make-up lacquered faces, and stick the turn. Pull it off like it was perfect silk and still be able to smile and laugh and be who Tyler is. He's not the contents of his wallet, he's not how much money he has in the bank, but he looks great in a sick mock-blue bathrobe. Fuzzy and worn in.

Sensation. Sensational. Like the feeling of blood rising from your throat when someone hits you too hard in the stomach. Sensational. Tyler is a sensation. A hot growing one. Like that tangible nausea taste. Sea sickness. Stone-cold high.

You don't have it hard for your best friend (best friend? when did you think he was your friend? when did he become your friend? when weren't you best friends? what are you doing here? when were you never here?). You don't have it hard for an acquaintance you met by chance on an airplane. Someone who intrigued and utterly mystified you. Who looked like someone you'd never be and do things you'd never do.

"Hey."

_What_ , you ask. Radiating absolute and pure guilt for anyone to see. You feel guilty because I have to cross my legs and bend over the table so Tyler doesn't notice the colour rising to my face. The cereal smells old and warm this close. Burns the throat. I should never forget that I'm not used to this kind of attention. The sort only ever dished out by that no-name boss of yours, piping away about cover sheets and editing this and copying that. The only constant human contact was his face shoved in your personal space, humid breath ghosting over your cold cheek.

"Hey."

You have to think about the stinging of sweat dripping down your face, and the feeling of bones snapping and flesh bruising before you say _what_ again. The tone is something Marla'd snap out. Barked. Annoyed.

"Yo."

Huh.

"Are. You," and Tyler has to point, the movement luring your eyes up, "There?"

He leans in then, the rosen cigarette cherry glaring off his eyes. He gives you a pitying look, hard and square. He's inched in so fucking close your mouth is twitching, teeth biting down on the inside of your lip. Split in places, like a map of every punch landed. Criss-crossed. Bloody tracks. Tyler smiles. Not a soft nice thing. It never is. It's a knowing one.


	2. Chapter 2

It's still there when you look.

Split second. Up and out.

You don't say anything for a while. Just enjoying each other's company, you guess. He flicks his cigarette away. It bashes into one of the walls and then down to the floor. The sparks fire up and quickly die out. Dancing demons. Hello conscious. I'm Cornelius, Rubert, even Luther, or Travis. Pick one and run. I do it all the time. This is me trying to cope. This is me living my dull life and doing my dull things. Working my dull job, enjoying my dull apartment. Was. This was me.

"Off day-dreaming again..."

_Thinking actually._

Like this is a constructive relationship and we talk about our feelings.

"This is here, this is now."

Oh, shit. You've just woken up is what you should be thinking, saying. Stop that mouth. It goes off like it doesn't have an end. There's streams of dialogue you can't even remember. That one night you got drunk? Yeah, you remember that one. He was a water fall of words. We should do this, we should do that. If now is being in this part of town, if now is being in this house... You'd rather be over there day-dreaming. Or dead. But you're trying not to think like that yet. You're thinking you'd rather just shut him up. Rather walk up and put your mouth over his.

He gives you that little smile for another moment. It stretches and then just thins out. He's turning then, snatching another smoke from the pack on the kitchen counter. He's offering you one over his shoulder, shaking it like a treat. His eyes are just barely back on you. You shake your head and look back down at your cereal bowl. Like soggy paper. Yum. You're not hungry. The spoon you've been holding has bent to an arc, rusty, unpretty, like so much modern art.

Tyler snorts, coughs. A plume of smoke raises a set of horns over his blond head. Not funny. You feel like the butt of every joke, don't you. Because for a perfect second Tyler doesn't move and the horns stay. Still not funny. Then they poof, dust away in the heavy air. Just your imagination. You and your imagination. Always. Tyler groans.

Ho hum. You lick your lips and ask what day it is.

"It's today. And that day is irrelevant."

Don't roll your eyes. Doesn't do you any good. Even if he doesn't see, I'm sure he feels it. Itching at the back of his head. This is so much time spent together you know each other's bowel movements. This is so much time together you think each other's thoughts. This is so much time together you don't feel sane. _What are we doing then?_ Ignore, skip around what you won't admit to be thinking, push the auto-pilot button. Bingo. This is your life. The only people you really care about anymore don't give a shit about you.

"Mayhem."

Tyler ashes his cigarette in your cereal. You watch, he watches, you end up at the sink running water in the bowl that's not really a bowl, it's old tupperware. He's still watching. Stop, go. Stop, go. Where was I? Oh, yeah. _Mayhem? What the fuck is that? Set some cats on fire? Beat up some homeless people? Spray paint wind shields? Enlighten me._ This is still early in the relationship and you find most of which Tyler says to be irresistibly crazy or immature.

"You need to stop thinking," Tyler says. And that finger point again. The _I want you_ point and the punch on _you_ like a fist. Accusing. "You need to relax."

This cigarette butt, just the filter now, meets his lips (lips, lips, lips) one last time for a puff and then drops to the floor. You blanch, and open your mouth. I disagree, sir Tyler. More thoughts. And then nothing. Not much can be said with a face full of Tyler Durden and a wet hot tongue down the throat.

I am Jack's gleeful terror.


	3. Chapter 3

It's a terrible woozy feeling later. Like you suddenly got just so tired that switch-on narcolepsy said hello. You were out in a blink—cracking to the floor like a ton of bricks. Your knees pitching you forward to smack face down. When you wake up all you think is, _the fuck exploded_. Did the gas break? Am I in the hospital? Charred to a frittery-like crisp. Stewed in my on juices. Because that's just the end to this perfectly disfuntional story we need. The closer of a lifetime.

But it dawns then. The lights click on. You're in a bed, you're on your stomach, you're sore. Tender, like beaten red meat. Ow. Don't think about it. Yeah, don't think about it, because right when you do you have a twinge of a headache and your skull _thrums_ , throbbing. How are things up there?Something beside you makes itself known when it stands on a creaky floor board then. You look slowly.

"Good morning."

 _What happened_ , you groan into the pillow.

"You fell on your face. Like a God damn tree, man. Timber."

 _Christ, I feel like shit_ , you say. The most excellent moment of moments, most sensational sensation of sensations, and you go and bowl over and crash in the kitchen. One word: _great_. You think you might have come down on a chair too because you're forehead feels hot and puffy in that bruised skin sort of way. Picture Tyler stepping away when you suddenly slump, and just letting you brain yourself on linoleum. Picture Tyler just letting you go and shaking his head after. Poof. You smack so hard you think you might have loosened a couple teeth. But you don't quite feel it yet. It's all just coming back to you. Something doesn't seem right. _Where am I?_

"My room, my bed. Comfortable?"

You try not think of how good this pillow smells right now. Soap (not quite our brand), smoke, something else... Something nice. Warms your stomach tragic and you're awake enough suddenly to lift your head out of the pillow and twist around to see Tyler. _What happened?_

"I told you."

_Yeah._

Conversation over, shut-down brain. Thank you for your service. Tyler has an insane man's laugh, border-line nuts, and that insane laughter goes out the door, along the halls, and down the broken stairs. That insane laughter is just a giggle now. Sleep. Shit. You had just woken up. Now you're down for the count. Dizzy like fight club just dizzy. Smacked around by a couple of random guys. All of who think you're the greatest thing since sliced bread. But somehow you do fall asleep. You open your eyes again maybe hours later or just a few minutes. There's the world again, bright and all too dreary.

"Hello."

You blink and try to sit up. Oh, groggy. Oh, tired. Oh, sore back and aching face. The weight of the world has suddenly caught up to you in all its spiteful entirety. What's this? I know you... You're Tyler Durden. I've got a juvenile crush on you. Like fresh out of grade school kind of crush. I want to bone you real hard. Get out of my life. No. Literally. Get out of me. You're cut off right in the middle of saying anything out loud. Even a sigh or a groan. Because, damn. As if it struck for the first time: he's a fucking freak, and he's not doing that. He's not pressing his mouth to the back of your neck, lips as soft as a woman's. He's not lifting you up and pushing you back at the same time, hitting the wall. The whole house creaks with it. What's going on here. Your cheek peels the wallpaper from its place.

"You need to relax."

Saying, yelling, or howling stop doesn't really register until he's pulling your hair out by the roots in this tug and rip sort of way. By then he has a formidable vice on your throat with his left hand, and when stop comes out it's as a croak. He doesn't stop. He pushes down harder, to the point you're wheezing and your eyes are bulging. You can feel every fingertip reaching deeper into your flesh, flexing to one point. He's crushing the life out of you, crouched over like a robber. Your breath is panicky. He's going to kill you. Maybe this time he'll end it. Leave you dead and yellow-faced in the bathtub. You don't move, and you hope maybe, maybe you're still sleeping. I'm asleep. I've slept.

Tyler says something then. _Roll over_. Harsh, coarse, but he's grinning. You can see glimpses. White teeth, gleaming, grinning their own shiny smiles. And now you can really see them because you rolled over, like a good dog, and he's right in your face, in control. You try not to think of Marla and how this must be what she sees while... you know... they do it. When it's hard and so fucking loud, and plaster and white chalk fall from the ceiling like sickness.

"Preparation is the key to great sex," Tyler says.

You keep your semi-conscious brain barely awake. Shock grinding in. You're going to black out. And two minutes after that you're done for; gurgling up a froth of spittle. Tyler's fucking crazy, fucking insane, and Tyler knows it. You close your eyes, you take a breath after he lets off. You lick dry lips, and as you do Tyler's pulling the blanket off your waist. Putting his hands on your hips. You say some whiny statement to the effect of _get off me_. You're eyes are open now. Tyler leers at you then snatches a bit of hair to pull hard.


	4. Chapter 4

"Spread your legs."

_No._

"Spread them."

_What? No. You're crazy, Tyler._

"Do it, or I'll do it for you."

 _Tyler_ , you say, trying for a threatening tone. Trying and failing because your throat hurts and your breathing won't slow to something normal. And all this isn't helping you think straight, so you're a struggling heap, pulling at Tyler's shirt. Trying to yell or do something. But you fail so miserably. You have to close your eyes. You do, and they slide shut. Slide, slide, like sleeping, like falling, and then darkness, and a hand, and now two. Tyler's breathing has upped and you can feel it like a gust. He's in your face and pressed against you. You remember to breath. Inhale. A cold breeze. Exhale. A twisting shudder, and you say, _stop_. Just going to insist this is wrong even though it feels like you're alive for the first time in weeks. You sick fuck. Burn my world down, Tyler. This is my nice new flaming shit.

"Yeah..."

Tyler's hand is all the way around your cock. How it got there you'll never know. And his grip is tight and varying, and the movement is up, down. Up again, down again. Your mouth opens and closes in rhythm, your hips hovering on a different line than your brain. The male brain is controlled by the simple pleasures. The simplest. And a hand-job is right up there. You don't want him to stop. He doesn't. And he's kissing you now. It could never actually be defined as _kissing_ though, not this. He's crushing his lips and teeth into yours. Fingers clawing in at the back of your head.

That's when air becomes a factor and he's not quite molesting you enough. Frankly. You groan and smack your head back into the wall. Air sucks into your lungs. His lips couldn't possibly be more red and swollen at that moment. You're downstairs in the kitchen all over again and wanting to cross your legs or bang your head into the table. This is all very good and very bad.

"I'm going to fuck you."

Oh, yeah. That thing. Like, tsk, tsk, you've been a bad boy. Now I have to fuck you. That works perfectly in the Tyler world. Planet Tyler, where life is nothing you thought it was, and there's no breaks or boundaries. Let yourself slide. Lower, lower, lower. He's taking off the jeans he apparently put on after you crashed and burned. Look, no underwear.

"A good lube is saliva," Tyler says, as if he wasn't doing what he's doing. "Soap is right up there. Blood works too." What a lovely interlude. You don't like the sound of that. You don't exactly like the way he looks at you either then. You don't exactly like how he's licking his fingers and telling you, _you need to relax_. He's a broken record. But then you don't need to be a poet when you're Tyler Durden. You just need to have a purpose, and a reason. A reason no one gets right up to the end.

"You'll like this," he whispers.

And, oh, hello. Finger. Wet because of saliva and cold up to a point. Your mouth wags. You want this. You think. You hope. So bad, you have no idea. You really don't. Click on auto-pilot. Let yourself hover. Simplest pleasures in life. Simple. _Jesus_ , you stutter. And then, _ow_.

"Some people use butter. You can use hair conditioner, cooking oil, hand lotion, suntan lotion..."

The king of useful information. Or so it seems. Not that you can pay much attention. But he keeps on talking. And all you're hearing is this methodic Tyler toned humming far off in your head, and that feeling. Tyler's saying, _two fingers can be used only when you're completely relaxed. Don't forget to re-lube._

He wets his other fingers and pushes deeper and deeper. "Wiggle to stretch tight muscle," he says. "For the submissive: it's important to breathe." And you do, and it's so much less of a breath than it is this gutted moan and the hint of that word _stop_ again. But maybe it was more like _please_. Tyler strokes your insides with his single knuckle-deep finger. All the while Tyler is on the verge of a shit-eating grin. Such a fuck. Such an abrasive mind game fuck.

This brings back memories.

_Just ask._

_Just ask what?_

_If you can stay at my place._

It's all so fucking stupid and primal. Like animals in the wild hunting other animals. Stalking. Pouncing. Now you're lying on a bed with your friend's finger up your ass and you're writhing around it. You know. Being animals and all. You'd fuck and be fucked by Tyler Durden in his own bed. Life is all going down. Nothing's static. But with this, the down is so good. Because the down's with Tyler. Hitting bottom feels so good. Like sexual climax. And when you're done you'll sleep on your belly to baby a sore ass. Much later, whether you sleep all day and through the night or not, neither of you will talk about that moment.

_Can I stay at your place?_

_Yeah._

"Re- _lax_." He whispers, like it's a terrible secret. And this is a terrible one. "Don't tell Marla."

You catch yourself and start to sit up. _Wait, wait a minute._ The whole room feels hot. Don't think oven. Think sauna. This is Tyler therapy. _Are you serious?_ Like you're afraid she's going to be disgusted with you. There's no doubt in your mind she already thinks that. Not focusing on his face, not focusing on his palms on your hips that are sweating, and certainly not focusing on where you are right now. Tyler grunts in your face and grabs your hair again. You wince, reel back. There's an unpleasant smell in the room. And all you think is: sweat. Sweat as Tyler comes in close to put his head on your shoulder and roll his hips. Taunting. As if you hadn't been reading along to what's happening, your mouth fires open and you say, _fuck_. You'd like to say _get off_ but you don't.

It's one of those things. Those moments you have before falling asleep. The ones you don't have anymore because you don't. Don't sleep. Right on the edge of awake and not awake. You think maybe you'll wake up. You think that until Tyler's biting you on the shoulder, then oh, yeah. He's smiling. Tyler once said, if you love me, you'll trust me. And you said, alright, alright. You're repeating alright in his face, over and over, and he seems to know what you mean, because he's still smiling and nodding his head. Alright.

It's all one perfect little second in your life stretched out, over taxed, to fit. This is also like having your guts ripped out and shoved back in with the most delicate of movements. Or the roughest. That would be now. Tyler's not gentle. He's not tender and easy. He's all over the place, and he's everything but delicate with you. _This is a great moment in your life_ , he's saying. You're going to miss it. Focus, focus. The way you look up, the way you see him, you imagine this is how people must see God.


End file.
